Chapter Text
The last thing Mark Grayson remembered was the searing pain of a monsters claws raking across his chest, followed by the strange crackling energy that erupted from the alien device they'd been fighting over. One moment he was trading brutal blows with the leonine warrior on a distant planet, the next he was hurtling through what looked like a tear in reality itself—a swirling vortex of colors that shouldn't exist.
Then came the impact.
Mark crashed through the massive electronic billboard overlooking Times Square with the force of a meteor, sparks and debris raining down on the crowded street below. The familiar yellow and blue of his costume was torn and bloodied as he tumbled across the asphalt, leaving a trail of cracked concrete in his wake. For a moment, everything was silent except for the ringing in his ears.
Then the screaming started.
"Holy shit, did you see that?"
"Someone call the cops!"
"Wait, is that a new supe?"
Mark groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. His enhanced hearing picked up dozens of conversations happening simultaneously around him, but something was off. The voices, the accents—they sounded familiar, but not quite right. And what was a "supe"?
"Jesus Christ, look at the damage," someone was saying. "Vought's gonna have a field day with this one."
Vought? Mark's brow furrowed as he slowly got to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs. The crowd had formed a wide circle around him, everyone holding up their phones, recording. The constant flash of cameras was disorienting, but what really threw him off was the skyline.
This looked like New York—but it wasn't *his* New York. The buildings were the same general shape, but the advertisements were different. Massive billboards featuring costumed figures he didn't recognize dominated the landscape. A blonde woman in a star-spangled outfit smiled down from one, while another showed a man in a blue suit with an American flag cape.
"The Seven," he heard someone whisper excitedly. "Think they're coming?"
"They have to be. Look at this mess."
Mark's head was still spinning, but he was beginning to piece things together. Wherever he was, it wasn't home. The dimensional rift—it must have transported him to some kind of parallel Earth. One where superheroes apparently called themselves "supes" and were organized into groups like "The Seven."
"Sir! Sir, are you alright?" A police officer was approaching cautiously, hand hovering near his weapon. "Can you tell us your name? Are you registered with Vought International?"
"Registered?" Mark shook his head, still trying to clear the fog from his mind. "I don't... look, I think there's been some kind of mistake. I'm not from around here."
The cop's expression grew more suspicious. "Right. Listen, pal, I don't know what kind of stunt you're trying to pull, but unauthorized supe activity in Manhattan is a federal offense. You need to—"
The statement died in the cops throat as a figure descended from the sky with theatrical precision. Blonde hair perfectly styled, cape billowing dramatically, and a smile that looked carved from marble—Homelander touched down with practiced grace, his boots clicking against the cracked asphalt.
Behind him, the rest of The Seven emerged from a Vought transport vehicle. Stormfront's silver costume gleamed as she surveyed the scene with calculating eyes. Queen Maeve stood stoically in her armor, her expression unreadable. Black Noir melted from the shadows like a living void. The Deep adjusted his scales nervously, while A-Train vibrated with barely contained energy. Starlight brought up the rear, her expression troubled as she took in the destruction.
"Well, well, well," Homelander announced, his voice carrying across the square with superhuman projection. He spread his arms wide, addressing both Mark and the gathering crowd. "Looks like we have a new player in town, folks! Don't worry, citizens—The Seven are here to handle this situation."
The crowd cheered and applauded on cue, though Mark noticed how some of their smiles seemed forced, their eyes darting nervously between the heroes and the nearest exits.
Homelander's laser-focused attention turned to Mark, that perfect smile never wavering. "Now, friend, that was quite an entrance! Very dramatic—I like that. But next time, maybe aim for somewhere a little less... populated?" He gestured at the crater and damaged storefronts. "Property damage is such a hassle for the cleanup crews."
Mark straightened, his enhanced hearing picking up subtle details the crowd couldn't—the slight edge beneath Homelander's jovial tone, the way the other heroes tensed almost imperceptibly, the whispered conversations among bystanders about hoping this wouldn't "turn into another Compound V situation."
"I'm sorry about the damage," Mark said genuinely. "It wasn't intentional. I'm not from around here and—"
"Of course you're not!" Homelander interrupted with a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "None of us are really 'from around here' in the cosmic sense, are we? But that's what makes us special. What makes us..." His eyes briefly flashed red before returning to their artificial blue warmth. "Superior."
Something about the way he said that word made Mark's skin crawl. This wasn't like meeting the Guardians of the Globe or even dealing with his father's twisted worldview. There was something fundamentally wrong here, something that made his Viltrumite instincts scream danger.
"Look, I appreciate the welcome committee," Mark said carefully, "but I should probably get going. I need to figure out how to get home and—"
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong!" Homelander's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "See, when new supes appear in our city—especially ones who can make craters like that—well, there are protocols. Procedures. The good people at Vought need to have a little chat with you. Background checks, power assessments, marketing potential..." He trailed off with a casual shrug. "Standard superhero stuff, I'm sure you understand."
"I'm not a superhero," Mark said, though even as the words left his mouth he realized how hollow they sounded. "At least, not the kind you're thinking of."
Stormfront stepped forward, her accent thick with condescension. "Aw, modest too. How refreshing. Most new supes are so eager to join the big leagues."
Mark took a step back, his instincts screaming louder now. "I said I need to go."
The temperature of the entire square seemed to drop several degrees. Homelander's smile remained fixed, but his eyes went completely flat—like a shark's, Mark thought.
"I'm afraid I wasn't making a request," Homelander said, his voice still carrying that false cheer even as menace radiated from every pore. "When The Seven extend an invitation, it's considered... impolite to decline."
Mark turned to leave, his muscles coiling with the intention to take flight, but Homelander's hand shot out with superhuman speed and clamped down on his shoulder like a vise.
"We're not done talking, sport."
The grip was meant to be intimidating, crushing—Mark could tell from the way Homelander's knuckles whitened with effort. But Viltrumite physiology was built for pressures that would liquify normal matter. Mark barely felt it.
"I don't think you heard me clearly," Homelander said, his voice low and threatening. "When Homelander tells you to do something, you do it."
Mark looked down at the hand on his shoulder, then up at Homelander's face. The perfect smile was gone, replaced by something cruel and entitled. This was a bully with godlike power, the worst possible combination.
"Get your hand off me," Mark said quietly.
"Or what, kid? You'll—"
Mark's hand shot up, grabbing Homelander's wrist. In one fluid motion, he twisted the arm behind Homelander's back and forced the supposed hero to his knees. The sound of Homelander's shocked grunt echoed across the suddenly silent square.
The Seven stepped forward as one, but froze when they saw their leader—the man they'd believed to be the strongest being on the planet—forced into submission by a teenager they'd never seen before.
Homelander's face was a mask of shock and rage as he looked up at Mark. "Who the hell are you?"
Mark released him and stepped back, his own expression calm but his muscles coiled for action. The other members of The Seven looked ready to attack, but uncertainty held them back. If this kid could overpower Homelander so easily, what could he do to them?
"I'm Invincible," Mark said simply.
Without another word, he bent his knees and launched himself into the air, the force of his takeoff shattering several windows and leaving a small crater in the concrete. Within seconds, he was a distant speck against the New York skyline, leaving behind a crowd of stunned onlookers and seven supposed heroes who were suddenly questioning everything they thought they knew about power.
Homelander slowly got to his feet, his face cycling through expressions of rage, humiliation, and something that might have been fear. No one had ever handled him like that. No one had ever made him look weak in front of civilians.
"Find him," he said quietly, his voice carrying clearly to his teammates. "Find him and bring him to me. I don't care what it takes."
As The Seven dispersed to begin their hunt, none of them noticed the young woman in the tiara—Starlight—looking up at the sky where the mysterious teenager had disappeared, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
For the first time in a long time, someone had stood up to Homelander and walked away.
Maybe this new world wasn't as hopeless as she'd thought.